Sunday, 26 February 2017

Satan's Whiskers. Chapter One.

APRIL 1964

In April 1964 the Beatles held the top five spots in
the Billboard top forty singles in America. The Rolling Stones released their
debut album, unimaginatively named the Rolling Stones. BBC 2 began broadcasting
in the United Kingdom. Thieves stole the head from the Little Mermaid statue in
Copenhagen. Twelve of the Great Train Robbers received sentences totalling
three hundred and twelve years, and I joined the rock and pop band Satan’s
Whiskers.

* *
* *

Soon after the
bodies were discovered, I was questioned by the police, but let me start from the
very beginning.

I stood in front
of the bathroom mirror, studying my appearance as I trimmed my unruly eyebrows
using the moustache trimmer attachment on my electric razor. My mother often
chased me around the house with a pair of eyebrow tweezers to rectify the
eyebrow problem, but as she plucked her own eyebrows to destruction, before
replacing them with a thin pencil line, I made sure that she never caught me.

After naming the newly formed band Satan’s
Whiskers, I’d tried, unsuccessfully, to persuade the others to follow my
example and grow whiskers as a gimmick. A week without shaving and the stubble
of the first few days looked a little more beard-like; although I had to
concede that the side growth was disappointing, which would undoubtedly provide
ammunition for the others to ridicule my efforts. On an impulse I shaved the
beard into a goatee. If I didn’t like the final result the whole thing would
have to be removed, but what the hell, easy come, and easy go. I examined my
handiwork in the mirror from every angle, until I was satisfied that the goatee
was an improvement on what preceded it, and looked even more satanic than did a
full beard.

* *
* *

Freddie Cope was
already at Brian’s house when I arrived for band practise. I’d met Freddie and Brian,
for the first time, a few weeks earlier, when I’d gone into Blakewater for a night out with a
friend.

It transpired
that Freddie and Brian planned to form a band, so the conversation inevitably
drifted into that territory. I was the owner of a bass guitar, in fire engine
red, which was currently languishing in my parent’s loft, after a previously
failed attempt to form a band. Being in need of a bass player to turn their
duo into a trio, they asked me to audition.

I wasn’t
confident of my musical abilities, as it had been a couple of years since I
last played the guitar. I practised throughout Saturday, and wished, on a
number of occasions, that I hadn’t agreed to audition for fear of embarrassing
myself, but I needn’t have worried, as I was accepted as a member of the fledgling band
by a unanimous vote.

“Hi Ray,” said
Freddie, in his usual cheery way, as I entered the smoky atmosphere of Brian’s
bedroom.

Freddie was a
happy-go-lucky character, with a ruddy complexion and curly blond hair. He was
around my height of a couple of inches below six feet tall, but I always wore
high heeled boots which elevated me by a couple of inches.

“I can’t breathe
in here,” I told them as I entered the room, open a bloody window.”

“Open it yourself,” Freddie
told me, as I pushed past him to open a window before I suffocated in the smoky
atmosphere.

Brian, who was
the exact opposite of Freddie, in both nature and appearance, grunted a reluctant
“Hello,” while continuing to tune his guitar with a cigarette dangling precariously
from his lips, and smoke drifting into his eyes, which made him blink
continuously and his eyes to water profusely.

Because the two
of them were so different in nature I found it difficult to understand how they
had ever become such good friends. Brian Cheshire was dark-haired, with a swarthy
Mediterranean appearance, and a little shorter than Freddie. He
always needed a shave, and even though he assured me that he’d shaved that very
morning, I’m embarrassed to report that his beard growth was more
impressive than was mine after a week of nurturing.

“Will Hank be
coming to band practise?” I asked.

Frank Rivers was
our absentee drummer, and known affectionately as Hank.

“No, he works on
Saturdays,” replied Freddie, “but practising in Brian’s bedroom, with a drum
kit, isn’t going to be an option anyway.”

* *
* *

Hank had played
drums in a public house, along with an elderly organist, before Freddie
persuaded him to dissolve his partnership and join our newly formed band. Hank and Freddie were maternal cousins, although they were so alike that they could easily have been mistaken for brothers. Hank
had never practised with the band, but we had played together once, at a wedding reception.
The reception had been held in a large hotel in the market square, and when I
say hotel I mean a public house with bedrooms, and named The Queens Hotel
rather than the Queens Arms or the Queens Head.

The booking had
been successful, even though we’d only practised a few numbers, and had to
repeat our first spot of the evening in the second half. I felt embarrassed by
our lack of versatility, but no one appeared to mind, as the booking was
of the easily obtained and unpaid variety, a wedding present from Hank and
Freddie to a common female relative.

The bride’s
father helped to flesh out our limited programme by requesting Eve of Destruction, on
no less than four separate occasions, which could hardly be described as an
appropriate sentiment given the occasion of his daughters’ wedding.

During the
interval, and on the back of a successful first set, we thought up names for
the band. Many were suggested and just as quickly rejected, until I pointed out
the name of a cocktail on the drinks menu, containing gin, Grand Marnier, sweet
vermouth, dry vermouth, and orange juice, with a dash of orange bitters, and from this observation the band Satan’s Whiskers was born.

* *
* *

While we were
practising Randy Bloomfield (1)
entered the bedroom; escorted by Brian’s mother carrying a tray of drinking
glasses filled to the brim with chilled orange juice. Randy was a married man
with a baby daughter, and a wife who at twenty years of age had resigned
herself to becoming a band widow.

Randy’s hair had
begun to turn prematurely grey, even though he was barely a year older than his
wife, but his eyebrows remained thick, black, and bushy. Randy had strong
features, with heavy brows, while his nose gave the appearance of having been
remodelled inside a boxing ring, although in truth it was a natural feature on
the landscape of his face.

Randy liked to take people outside of their comfort zone. He found it amusing to
see them squirm, and with that in mind he invited us onto the stage at the Greyhound public house, when we turned up to watch his band play.

“We have another
band in the audience,” he informed the assembled crowd. “If you cheer loudly enough they might be persuaded to come up onto the stage and give us a number.”

We were
dumbstruck, as we’d only practised four songs, and all of them chosen because
they consisted of just three chords, but the audience didn’t appear to notice
our musical inadequacies, and his plan to embarrass us came unstuck when we went down a storm.

He may have been
trying to embarrass us, but he actually did us a favour, as it gave us the
confidence we needed. I in particular would have been reluctant to go on stage
before we were perfect, but after the reception we received, perhaps more for
our bravery than our musical ability, Freddie and Brian were keen to get the
band up and running as quickly as possible.

Randy’s band
regularly played at a public house on the estate of council owned properties
where he and Brian lived. The pub was popular with the younger demographic, but
as the booking fee was disappointingly low; Randy was looking to offload this
regular Sunday night venue in favour of the more lucrative offers which were
flooding in, as his bands popularity gained momentum.

“I’ve got a
proposition for you,” he announced, as he helped Mrs Cheshire with the
distribution of refreshments.

“We’ve been
offered a booking tomorrow night, which I’d like to accept, but we’re obligated
to play at The Manxman. I’ve spoken with the publican, and he’s prepared to
give you a trial, if you’d be interested.”

“We definitely
are interested?” Brian blurted out, without any consultation on the matter. “Can
we go and see him right now?”

“I’ll come with
you if you like and introduce you,” Randy volunteered, as he wanted the matter
settled as quickly as possible.

Although the pub
was within walking distance of Brian’s house, we chose to drive, as walking was
never going to be a consideration with transport parked at the front door. The
pub consisted of a large public room divided by folding doors. A red carpet,
covered with a busy pattern, helped to disguise the beer stains caused by
frequent spillages, although it failed to hide the shiny spots of chewing gum,
which had been trodden into the carpet and were accumulating daily around the
bar.

Customers with
drinks insisted, to my annoyance, in congregating around the bar and making it
unnecessarily difficult for others to get served, despite many seats and
tables being unoccupied.

Randy introduced
usto the publican, who was busy
pulling pints of beer behind the bar, which ran down the whole of the wall
with beer pumps and optics at regular intervals along its length.

“This is the
band I was telling you about Jack. They’re available tomorrow, and willing to
stand in if you’re prepared to give them a trial.”

“Stage is in
there,” the landlord informed us, as he finished serving a customer and came
from behind the bar to push back the dividing doors.

Mounted on
braked wheels, the tiny stage was a single step above ground level. A backdrop
of vertical silver strips caught the reflected light from a glitter ball, which
the publican switched on for effect, and it sparkled in a myriad of
colours, while he watched in wonder as if seeing it for the very first time.

“The stage
appears to be a bit small,” I observed. “We’ll never get the four of us and all
our equipment on there.”

“Randy’s band spills onto the dance floor,” we were informed by the landlord, which
Randy confirmed with a nod of his head. “If you’re a success, I’ll book you to
play alternate Sundays, with Randy’s band doing the others.”

We concluded the
business agreement with a handshake, but I understood why Randy wanted to move
to pastures new, as payment for our musical services was close to non-existent at this venue,
although at this stage of our fledgling career, the money didn’t matter half as
much as laying claim to our first commercial booking.

Footnote

(1) The character described as Randy Bloomfield went
on to record the single “Looking Good Feeling Bad,” his own composition,
and two country music albums under the
stage name of Randy Blue and Deep Water.